


Of Women And Waistcoats

by icarus_chained



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Clothing Kink, Crossdressing, F/M, Fun, Historical, M/M, Multi, Teasing, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the (very) early 20th century. Helen and Nikola experiment with Helen's crossdressing, and then show the results to James. Who is ... suitably impressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waistcoat

"Helen! I'm utterly shocked! Think of the scandal. You, all alone in that little room, with your hands on a man's buttons ..." He was full sure she could see his grin through an inch of solid oak, but then, that _was_ rather the point of the exercise.

"Nikola? Do shut up." 

Her voice was sweet and light as any poison, deadly little barb, but she couldn't hide the humour. Not from him. He grinned all the wider, and leaned more casually against her bedroom door.

"Now, would that be any fun? Come, Helen. You must at least allow me the pleasure of guessing."

There was a pause, the rustles of moving cloth going quiet for a moment, and then her voice. Her voice with such a grin in it, Nikola defied anyone to resist the chance. "Guess," she said, deliberately flat. So marvellously restrained, his Helen.

"Guess," he confirmed, crossing his arms as he watched the corridor, his mind almost entirely on the other side of the door, and all the happier for it. "For example, what material will you grace us with. It must be ... yes. Only the smoothest for such a fine lady. Tell me. Is it silk?"

She laughed, a little bite of sound, but played along. "Oh, definitely."

He grinned to himself. "Yes, of course. Let's see. Embroidered?"

"Naturally."

"Hmm. And the buttons. Pearl?"

She laughed again, and oh, this grin must have teeth, for the playful little sting in her voice. "Oh, Nikola. Would I do that to you? I know how much you hate pearls, after all."

He bit his lip, feeling the distinct urge to tap his fingers delightedly, only barely restraining himself. "The things you do for me, Helen," he commiserated, sighing cheerfully to indicate the depth of her long-suffering. "You spoil me, you truly do."

"And don't you forget it," she shot back, but he knew she was grinning. He knew she delighted in even the little favours. She did spoil him terribly, but well, it was only natural. He was simply that charming.

"Never, my dear," he assured. "But you must let me finish guessing, before you present yourself and I lose all ability to think in your presence."

She laughed, rich and bright, and threw something with a soft thump against the door. "Then you have about two minutes, Nikola. And you haven't even touched the upper layers."

Well. What could a man do, when presented with an opportunity like _that_. He couldn't be expected to help himself. He really couldn't. "But Helen," he purred. "It's not the upper layers I'm interested in ..."

He stood forward from the door with a laugh as whatever she threw this time hit solidly enough to quite probably leave a dent, and was grinning irrepressibly as he turned to face the vision of loveliness that threw open the door behind him. Turned to meet those dancing eyes, that delicious glare, the unwilling quirking of her lips as she tried desperately to hide her smile.

And down, to an equally intriguing sight. The waistcoat was in fact silk, he noted. And embroidered, with rather fine silk buttons, though really, that wasn't at all what drew the eyes, when she was the one wearing it ...

"Well?" she asked, tartly and with that wicked smile in her eyes that said she knew _exactly_ where his mind had wandered. He managed to pull his eyes back to her face, with considerable effort and a grin that was wholly beyond his control, and she rolled her eyes at him. "Focus, Nikola. Will I pass?"

He gave that all the consideration it was due, and made a show of reluctance at passing his judgement. "As a man? Regrettably not, I'm afraid. Though allow me to assure you, you wear that suit _far_ better than its intended owner ever could." Indeed she did. Far, far better.

Helen growled at him, exasperation and still that reluctant, laughing amusement, and lobbed something white and silky and _very_ interesting at his head. Presumably as a weapon, though he couldn't say he found it so, and his very happy eyebrow probably told her that in rather short order, if her faint flush was anything to go by. She snatched the offending item back out of his hand, and delivered one of her special glares.

He couldn't say he found _that_ offensive, either. In his defense, it wasn't his fault she was so damnably attractive.

"Nikola!" she snapped, but he didn't miss, could never miss, the laughter bubbling underneath it. "Will you please focus? If this isn't going to work, then there's no point ..."

She made to move back inside, to change out of her oh-so-intriguing outfit, and really, he couldn't allow that. Not in good conscience. At least not until ...

"Ah, but there is a point," he said, catching her arm gently, and couldn't have kept the grin from his face if he tried. She looked up at him, those dancing eyes narrowing in suspicion, and Nikola could feel the old rush, the old laughing buzz of mischief between them. There was a time he could talk her into anything, and if he was honest the reverse was still more than true, and this ... this was simply far too good an opportunity to pass up.

"And that point would be ...?" she asked, with that pointed little lilt to her voice, but there was more than a little mischief in her eyes, too. More than enough for his purposes.

"Helen," he said, with utmost sincerity. "I must absolutely forbid you to remove those garments." And as her eyebrow shot up, at perhaps the most unlikely phrase ever to pass his lips, he let his grin spread to full, angelic radiance. "At the very least, not until after we have shown your new look to James ..."

And oh, he did so love the wicked shine of her eyes when she followed him down the less trodden paths ...


	2. Ambush

They were waiting for James in the study. 

Not sinisterly. Or at least so he thought, at first. They were making no effort to hide their presence, Nikola's laughing drawl carrying along the hall, Helen's brisk, teasing retorts quieter but no less clear. Casual and easy as they always were in each other's presence, just like any other time spent waiting for James to return from the Yard or his practice. He had no reason to suspect a trap.

Until he opened the door, and saw her.

She was sitting in his armchair. Reclining back, a glass of brandy at her elbow, golden hair brushing the collar of a man's jacket, trousered legs sprawled and slightly apart, the silk of her waistcoat gleaming faintly in the lamplight. Helen Magnus in a three-piece suit, a golden effigy in rich brown and cream, sprawled at her ease.

James stopped in the doorway. Stood stock still, utterly uncaring as their conversation stopped around him, allowing himself a moment of stunned shock in which to simply stare. In which to simply breathe. Catching sight of Nikola out of the corner of his eye, the smug, delighted expression on the man's face, and ignoring it. Simply staring at her, far from dignified, far from appropriate, simply letting his mind skip almost disbelievingly across her form, and catalogue, almost against his will, the details.

The snug fit of her jacket, cut for a slighter man than most and fitting almost shockingly well. They had done well there, at least. The strangeness of her throat, smooth and feminine against the hard, formal line of her collar, in desperate need of disguise. The shape of her beneath the waistcoat, causing it to ride up somewhat, in ways that must have driven Nikola to distraction. 

And her legs. Most shocking, most provocative, most unseemly, her _legs_. The line of them clear from waist to ankle, defined beneath the fabric of her trousers, shockingly visible in a way a woman's legs were never meant to be. The outward turn of her calf in her seat, the flash of an ankle peeking from beneath the hem, the _openness_ of her, like this ...

She sat up beneath his stare. Her back stiffening, her legs coming together in a seat altogether more appropriate for a woman, seemingly on pure instinct, and some part of James couldn't help but wonder if Nikola had been the one responsible for her previous, provocative sprawl. An altogether more masculine seat, and one that made sense to engender if this charade had an actual _purpose_ , but right now all he could think was that being able to blame Nikola for his current state was a _very_ appealing thought.

"James?" She stood up, confident and proud despite the uncertainty in her voice, smooth and sure as if she had been born to wear a man's clothing, born to stand golden and defiant in the face of every convention, every rule. 

It was wholly possible that she _had_.

"Give him a moment, Helen," Nikola drawled softly, leaning insolently against the sideboard with a smug little grin, but there was something very close to sympathy in the vampire's eyes as he looked at James, a faint flash of amused fellow-feeling. "A man needs time to get his breath back ..."

James glared at him. Glared at the little grin that made it obvious it was not exertion James needed to regain his breathing from. Glared at the mischievous twinkle, the delighted curve of a lip that said this was all Nikola's idea, that this trap was the vampire's doing. That James' discomfort was the intended goal, all vague sympathy aside. James glared at Nikola, at the humour lurking beneath the uncertainty in Helen's eyes too. For a moment, in fine temper, he glared at them both.

Then he shook his head. At himself, mostly. It was, after all, _them_. He should hardly have expected anything less, from Nikola Tesla and Helen Magnus. Resigned, reluctantly amused, he let temper slip away.

But not, perhaps, a certain degree of vindictiveness. As he straightened, as he turned to look once more at Helen, this time with more clinical eye, with more careful and exacting a gaze. He let temper slip, but not, maybe, a certain determination to return the favour. Because it should be remembered that he was James Watson, that he had a certain degree of experience with their tricks, that he was not without recourse himself.

And to judge by the wary, anticipatory flash in Nikola's eyes, the ready shift in Helen's stance, for once laid completely bare without the disguise of skirts ... They were certainly aware of it. The both of them, aware of and delighting in James' determination to join their game, to repay their challenge with his own. The first foundation of friendship between them, they Five, they Three, and the most enduring.

James smiled, slow and nearly vicious, and raised a mild eyebrow. "I can only assume you've come to me for help," he said, soft and precise as he looked them over, as he grinned at them. "Helen, you really should know better than to ask for clothing advice from _Nikola_ ..."

The vampire straightened slowly, moving away from the sideboard with a slow, wicked grin. "I beg your pardon?" he purred, letting his eyes trail over Helen in pointed echo of James' earlier shocked staring, his own eyebrow a smooth counterpoint to James'. "I think, you must admit, the overall effect is _quite_ stunning."

"Oh, indeed," James agreed readily, ignoring the hint of temper beginning to appear in Helen's face. "Simply, one must presume, not the one she was aiming for. I do suppose this disguise is actually supposed to get her somewhere?"

Nikola shrugged, an easy, casual movement, and smiled expansively. "Probably. I will admit, it wasn't my first concern." A grin, eyes twinkling. "Nor even my fourth ..."

"That much is readily apparent," James drawled, fighting a grin of his own. It was imperative that he remain restrained, at least a little longer. At least until ...

"Gentlemen," Helen interrupted, quellingly. "I am still _present_." She crossed her arms, the angry jut of her hip startling for how apparent it was, the lines of her waistcoat bunching and doing interesting things to the lines of her chest. Beside him, James distinctly heard Nikola give a low, approving hum, and, finally, allowed himself a rich, proper grin. Allowed himself fully into this game of theirs.

"My apologies, Helen," he murmured. Stepping close to take her hand and bow over it, part genuine remorse, part rich amusement at her annoyance. He smiled, caught by the sudden flash of metal, caught by the sudden realisation that the cufflinks on the sleeve beneath his hand were _his own_ , caught by the realisation that she stood there dressed in clothes borrowed between himself and Nikola. That Helen Magnus stood there in _their clothes_ , in a man's clothes. That she stood there fully a part of their world, reshaping it around herself, and it was, in some indefinable way, magnificent.

"I will help you," he said, with a small, faint smile. "You'll need to do something with your hair, and I have a journal, from an old friend, that will help with the ... with the waistcoat. And for goodness sake, Nikola. You could at least have lent her a cravat!"

"And cover up that throat?" the vampire asked, moving behind them, a warmth at James' back as they looked at Helen. Nikola rested his chin on James' shoulder, grinning as he looked between them, perfectly irrepressible, perfectly unconscious or uncaring of scandal, the perfect counterpoint to James himself. "I make no apologies for my needs ... _gentlemen_."

Helen laughed, rich and startled, to the broadening of Nikola's grin, and James sighed. "Yes," he said, with false disapproval. "I'm well aware of your flirtations with scandal, Nikola." Then he smiled, slow and secretive. "However ... there are advantages to being discrete. Such as the fact that no-one really expects certain things of you ..."

He grinned, ever so softly, and reached out to hook two fingers in the pocket of Helen's waistcoat, to draw her gently closer while she looked up at him with sparkling, challenging eyes and Nikola looked on with naked interest. He grinned, feeling the smoothness of silk and the stiffness of embroidery against the backs of his fingers, feeling the long, smooth climb of Helen's trousered legs against his own, feeling the heat of Nikola's excitement against his back. He grinned, and then he leaned down, and then he kissed her.

It was smooth, at first, wet and almost shocking in its softness, the give of her lips a strangeness against the stiff line of her collar, the brush of her hair odd against the strength of her presence, the press of her body against him. Her mouth was soft at first, and it shocked him. But she was Helen Magnus, and there was strength in her to match any man, regardless of dress, and she did not stay soft for long. She did not stay giving for long, not when she could take, not when she could press and bruise and demand, and steal the breath of any man that looked upon her.

James kissed her, fingers tangled in a man's shirt and a woman's fire, pressed between a vampire and a woman stronger than them both, more proud, and it was, in that fierce, indefinable way, magnificent.

"Helen?" Nikola rasped, when James managed to pull away, when he managed to pull back and leave her soft and bruised and shining with savage strength in her three-piece suit. "Helen?" the vampire asked, raggedly, his arms curling around James' waist and holding tight. "You remember that I said you mustn't remove those clothes? I may have been hasty in that analysis ..."

James laughed, a soft bark of joy and amusement and the sparking of the connection between them, and reached around to tug Nikola forward into a kiss across his shoulder, into a quick, bruising press of lips and a brief clash of teeth, while Helen watched them with hungry eyes.

"Oh, I don't know," he breathed, watching the darkness in Nikola's eyes, the fierce delight in Helen's. "Perhaps we could show her the advantages of male dress. Such as the fact that one doesn't really need to take it _off_ to reach the important parts ..."

Nikola laughed, short and giddy, and then it was lost as Helen rushed them both, shoved herself against James to reach behind him, to catch Nikola and kiss him breathless, to press her leg between James' and catch his gasp in his throat. No skirts to tangle her legs, no cage to hamper her movements. Helen Magnus, pure and barely sheathed, and she was _glorious_.

Later, James would definitely blame Nikola. For the suit, for the game, for the mischief that led them to ambush him, and he to challenge them in their turn. He would blame Nikola, confident in the knowledge that it was decidedly the vampire's fault.

It was worth remembering, though, that occasionally Nikola had some truly _excellent_ ideas.


End file.
